Authors: Diana Cosby
His Destiny (23 page)
Tears again filled her eyes.
His heart trembled. “Are you happy here with me?”
A tear rolled down her cheek. Cristina nodded.
Patrik leaned forward, caught her mouth, tasted her essence, a sweetness uniquely hers. On a moan, he took the kiss deeper as he slowly peeled away her gown, inched off each wisp until she sat before him with her clothes rumpled around her in a delicate puddle.
Appreciation filled him as he leaned back. “Much better.”
“Better? I am naked.”
“You are.”
“But you are fully clothed.”
“A matter I will be fixing.” With movements as quick as his injuries would allow, he disrobed.
“Wait,” she said as she moved closer. “I want to see you as well.”
“Be on with it, lass,” he said through gritted teeth.
With an impish look, emerald eyes scanned him with sensual delight. Her gaze roved, paused, widened as she slowly took him in.
Worried eyes lifted.
“Remember before,” he said, his words tender, filled with the memory that although once married, in many ways she was a virgin. “Our joining will only bring you pleasure.”
“I knew not you were so big.”
He chuckled. “Flatter me, will you?”
A blush stroked her face.
“Do you want me as much as I do you?”
“Yes.”
“Come here.”
She walked over.
On a sigh, he gently lifted her into his arms.
“Patrik, you are not strong enough!”
“Shhh, if I cannot carry you, I should not be making love to you.”
“Will I ever know you?”
He sobered at her words. “I pray so.” Desperation slid over her face, shaking him to the core.
“Make love with me, Patrik.”
Afraid to look deeper, wanting this moment to be all that he’d dreamed, he laid her upon his bed and claimed her. He took his time, allowed his hands, his body to show her his love, wishing desperately he could use words as well.
As she found her release, Patrik let go, exploding within her tightness. He had never felt so complete. For long moments he lay within her, their bodies claimed within the golden heat, spirals of dust shimmering above them as if a magical mist.
Cristina’s eyes widened. “Patrik.”
“What is it?”
“Your pendant, ’tis glowing.”
He lifted the pendant. As she’d claimed, it pulsed with a soft light.
Nervous eyes lifted to his. “What does it mean?”
“I am unsure.” He remembered his brothers’ talk of the halved gemstone and the woman each had married. Nay, he’d tell her naught. It mattered little as Cristina had left his halved gemstone in their grandmother’s room untouched.
“There is a match to it in the chamber above,” she said.
Alexander’s tale of finding her in the tower chamber echoed through Patrik’s mind as well as his brother’s suspicions. “Aye, the room belongs to our grandmother. When each of us was knighted, she gifted us a halved gemstone. This is malachite. It is said to nourish inner peace.” He remembered his turbulent childhood, his struggles since then. Aye, their grandmother had been wise in her choosing. Even his meeting of Cristina had been filled with strife.
The bells of Terce echoed outside.
Her face paled.
“What is wrong?”
“It is growing late.”
“ ’Tis but midmorning.” At the flicker of panic on her face, he understood. Even after they’d made love, it had changed naught. She intended to leave. Grief tore through him, shattered the fragments of his hopes, dreams he’d dared.
Dreams of a fool.
Anger trampled upon the hurt. His brothers’ suspicions again rose to mind. Nay, he still believed them wrong, believed she would never share rebel secrets with their enemy.
Patrik damned his last role in this heart-wrenching act. On with it, lad. She loves you. After she leaves, you can find her again and help with whatever struggles she is battling. Now ’tis important to prove to your brothers she is a woman they can trust.
On a sigh Patrik shifted, allowed the covers to roll aside, and bumped the rolled leather. The writ fell off the bed and dropped to the floor.
Cristina’s eyes riveted upon the stained bound leather.
With a groan, he picked up the missive, set it upon the edge of the table. He didn’t miss how her gaze lingered upon the writ a moment too long.
Nae, please let me prove them wrong. “Stay with me,” he whispered. At the hesitation in her eyes, hope ignited. She would remain, the writ and whatever its importance discarded.
A long second passed.
Sadness shadowed the warmth within her eyes. “I cannot. Besides,” she said with false brightness ringing in her voice, “the lad sent to sit with you will return any moment.” Cristina pulled the covers away, her naked body gleaming.
Heart aching, he prayed that when she left, it was with an empty hand. But, indeed the time for truth had come. “I am tired.”
“You did over much.”
“Mayhap.” He forced a smile. “But it was well worth any damage caused.” Patrik drew her against him. Angst swirled in his throat. Let him be wrong. He prayed she was just a lass struggling to feel again, not a spy after the writ. On a sigh, he closed his eyes, feigned sleep.
Long moments passed. The clash of knights in practice outside echoed in the distance. A summer breeze kicked up, its silken flow sifting into the chamber to sweep across his flesh.
He didn’t move.
“Patrik?” Cristina whispered.
He remained silent, made not a movement, nothing to betray that he was alert.
“Patrik, are you awake?”
Do not touch the writ, he silently willed. In this let my brothers be proven wrong.
The bed shifted. Coldness brushed his skin where she’d lain. The soft pad of her steps grew distant, then paused. A scrape, then a soft creek. The door closed with a gentle thud.
With a prayer the writ remained, Patrik slowly opened his eyes. Pulse racing, he glanced toward the table, and his heart broke.
The writ was gone.
Outrage mixed with pain. Bedamned, he would catch her. Patrik shoved himself up. Dizziness swamped him. Gritting his teeth, he fought the wave of blackness.
And failed.
Chapter 18
At the entry to the turret, Emma halted and turned back toward Patrik’s door. Guilt swept her. When she’d accepted this mission from Sir Cressingham, ’twas but a mission like so many others in her past. Once completed, she’d walk away, focus on the next without another thought.
Except from the first Patrik had broken down her defenses. He wasn’t the cold, heartless man she’d expected. With each passing day her resistance toward him had crumbled. Then foolishly, she’d fallen in love.
Images of him asleep moments ago swept through her mind. He believed her a woman he could trust, a lie she’d nurtured to achieve a goal. No, worse than a lie, she’d used his outrage of the English to craft a woman he could not deny.
The writ within her hand burned as if afire.
Emma closed her eyes. The bound parchment represented naught but shame, the emptiness of her life. A life she’d worked hard to build. A life she now detested with her every breath. She fought the surge of panic sweeping her at leaving the man she loved, at her ultimate betrayal.
Tears burned her throat as she turned and started down the turret steps. At the tapestry, she paused. A sad smile touched her mouth. Odd, before she’d found the intricate weave out of place within this formidable stronghold. Now, the fairies made perfect sense to her.
Nor would she have guessed such a formidable man as Lord Grey would soften toward a woman who should be his enemy. Yet somehow he had fallen in love with Lady Linet and claimed her as his wife.
It seemed Sir Alexander, too, had overcome incredible odds to make
his captive
his wife. Though she had not yet heard Sir Duncan’s story of how he’d met and married his wife, she guessed it would match his brothers’ unexpected journeys.
his captive
his wife. Though she had not yet heard Sir Duncan’s story of how he’d met and married his wife, she guessed it would match his brothers’ unexpected journeys.
Melancholy swept her. Who would have believed that Lochshire Castle, a rebel fortress that should instill fear, instead inspired hope? But however much she wished to be with Patrik, naught could repair her deception.
She glanced up the spiral steps. Or, could she make amends, at least in part?
If she returned the writ before she departed Lochshire Castle, Patrik would not suspect her treachery. Then she could vanish from his life, and leave at least part of her wrongdoing repaired. When he searched for Cristina Moffat, he would find no one.
As for Sir Cressingham, when she didn’t return, he would label her a traitor and put a price on her head. A risk she was willing to take.
After years of playing different roles, she would craft yet another character, invent a new name, and sail to France. Or, mayhap slip away to Spain. Regardless, she could never return to England or Scotland.
She started toward Patrik’s chamber. Though he could never be hers, she prayed that one day Patrik would find a woman who loved him as he deserved.
Echoes of Sir Alexander’s and Sir Duncan’s voices rose up the turret.
God in heaven, she would never reach Patrik’s chamber in time! Neither could she allow them to find her with the writ. Heart pounding, she ran up the tower steps.
The door to the tower chamber stood open and sunlight flooded the room. Emma halted, a chill sweeping her skin. ’Twas as if their grandmother’s room welcomed her.
“I am far from convinced,” Sir Alexander growled.
“Nor I,” Sir Duncan agreed.
They were coming up! She bolted into the chamber and flattened herself against the wall behind the door. Cool stone pressed against her back as she awaited discovery.
Long seconds passed.
The brothers’ voices faded.
Emma sagged back. They’d entered the corridor on the second floor.
A door creaked. Silence.
Were they with Patrik? No, if they checked on him, they would find him asleep and allow him to rest. Regardless, they were too close to try to return the writ. Now what? She must find a way before she left.
On a shaky exhale, Emma stepped from behind the door. The chamber stood empty, with no sign of the old woman who’d spoken with her the night before. As well, the hearth lay black. Neither ash nor a cold ember sat within.
Had she imagined the woman as well? No, she’d seen the elder, had spoken with her. From Sir Alexander’s stunned expression when she’d described the woman, he’d thought her mad.
Fatigue spilled through Emma and she rubbed her brow. Mayhap she was. At this point she was unsure of anything except the fact that she must go, leave Cristina Moffat behind without a trace.
“Emma Astyn,” she whispered, testing her name against her tongue. It sounded odd. She gave a rough laugh. So long had she played different roles for her missions, even her real name sounded foreign. Without intending to, she’d severed the ties of her past. No longer did Emma Astyn exist. Did her true identity really matter?
She stilled.
Yes.
Because Patrik had taught her to love, to want a man at her side, and most of all, to wish for the impossible.
Emotion tightened her chest as she scanned the fairies woven within the tapestry and those upon the ceiling. Their faces remained empty, devoid of expression as if the other night her mind had indeed played tricks.
“Riders coming!” a man’s voice boomed from outside.
Emma hurried to the arched window.
A small contingent rode two abreast upon the narrow road leading to the castle. Across the broken sweep of water, knights were setting up camp upon the hillside as more men continued to pour from the dense forest.
Was Lord Grey planning another assault upon English troops? She studied the confident man leading the small group.
God in heaven, Sir David de Moravia!
Her blood chilled. She would never forget her meeting with the Parson of Bothwell, uncle to Sir Andrew de Moray. At the time, she’d played yet another character, but if she met up with Sir David, a man of sharp wit, he would recognize her.
Hooves clattered upon timber as the rebels rode beneath the gatehouse. The bailey flooded with the echo of horses and men as squires ran to take the knights’ horses while those within Lochshire Castle gathered to meet the small party.
The Earl of Grey strode to Sir David de Moravia, his face hard. The leaders clasped hands, and then the earl motioned Sir David toward the keep.
Shaken, Emma stepped back. A glow from the corner caught her attention. The other half of Patrik’s gemstone.
“’Tis yours.”
On a gasp, Emma whirled. The chamber stood empty. No one was here. Her mind was playing tricks. She was tired, overwrought, terrified.
Unsure of anything, she glanced at the bowl. The other half of Patrik’s gemstone pulsed. As if guided by a force, she crossed the chamber. Sadness filled her as she lifted the malachite. Its warmth pulsed against her skin, offering strange comfort.
An ache built in her heart. This was a part of Patrik, a reminder of the love she’d found. Though she would never have him, she could have this. Before she could change her mind, she slipped the gemstone into her pocket and hurried from the chamber.
At the second-floor entry, she peered down the corridor. It lay empty. She held her breath and slipped past.
“Cristina!” a child’s excited voice called as she paused at the opening to the great room.
“Joneta,” Emma said, fighting for a smile. Mouth dry, she scanned the enormous chamber, thankful for the mill of people. “Where is your mother?”
A smile curved the cherub cheeks as she cradled her doll against her chest. “She is outside helping with the wash. Would you like to see her?”
A commotion at the entry caught Emma’s attention.
Lord Grey and Sir David de Moravia strode into the great room.
She couldn’t let Sir David see her! Emma nodded to the girl. “Yes, I would.”
Ignorant of her panic, Joneta smiled. “This way.” The child skipped down a side hallway, then out a back door.
The smell of bread wafted in the air along with herbs and other savory scents as they exited the keep. Beyond the buildings knights clogged her view, their faces weary with travel. Claymores clung to their backs; daggers were secured to their waists. Men prepared for war. Men who would give their lives to win. Men like Patrik.
Joneta turned. “Cristina, are you coming?”
If only she could linger, if only her days could be filled with mundane chores and each of her nights spent in Patrik’s arms.
On an unsteady breath, Emma knelt before the child. “I must go, but I need you to do me a great favor.” She forced a smile. “Will you do that for me?”
Joneta nodded, her curls bouncing with delighted innocence.
Hand trembling, Emma withdrew the writ. She pressed the bound leather within the child’s hand, and then curled her fingers over the top. “Hide this. For now, tell no one. After the bells of Vespers, bring this to Sir Patrik.”
Excitement shone in the girl’s eyes. “’Tis a gift?”
Emotion swamped her. “Yes.” But in his anger at finding the writ gone, Patrik would only see that she’d betrayed him. A situation too late to repair. Mayhap it was for the best.
“I know,” Joneta exclaimed, “it is like the story of the fairies!”
Her mind a muddle, needing only to escape, Emma nodded, far from understanding the child’s ramblings. “Promise me. Swear you will show no one and not deliver it to Sir Patrik until after the bells of Vespers.”
“I swear.” Green eyes swirled with excitement as Joneta slipped the writ beneath the folds of the blanket covering her doll. The girl hesitated. Delight crumbled to sadness upon her face. “Why are you leaving?”
“’Tis complicated.” An understatement.
“Will you return?”
She shook her head. “I do not believe so.” Emma embraced the child in a fierce hug, wishing times were different, that she could share her life with Patrik. “Never will I forget you.”
A tear rolled down Joneta’s cheek. “I do not want you to go.”
“I would like to stay as well.” Emma wiped away the child’s tear. “But we cannot always have what we wish.”
She sniffed. “Like when my mother buried my brother?”
Emma’s heart broke. “Yes.” On shaky legs she stood. “I must leave, but know that I will miss you terribly. And, after you give Sir Patrik the writ, tell . . .” She fought for control. “Te-Tell him that I love him.”
Somber, Joneta nodded.
Before she broke down, Emma went to where a line of clothes dried, removed an old cape, donned the garb. With the unhurried steps of one who worked within the castle, she walked to the bailey. It was crowded with people, some loading supplies for the rebels camped outside while others secured ropes over loads already piled. Near the gatehouse, men and women were walking alongside wagons topped with bags of food. Keeping her head bowed, Emma fell in amongst the group.
As they moved past the drawbridge, plumes of dust spewed from the wheels, shrouding her and the others in a haze. Emma wiped her eyes, thankful for the concealing haze. Each step was laden with fear, each step one closer to escape.
Once the party reached the shore, amidst the roll of wagons, snorts of horses and the wave of knights continuing to arrive, Emma quickly slipped away. At the edge of the forest, within a dense copse of trees, she came upon a squire tying a mare to the bough of a small tree.
With practiced ease, she knocked out the squire, hid his body within a dense thicket and covered him with the stolen cape. With the number of knights nearby, the squire would be safe until he came to.
With quiet, hurried steps, she led the horse farther into the dense tangle. At the top of the steep slope, through the swath of fir trees, she took in Lochshire Castle, where Patrik still slept, where but a short while before they had made love, and where, if only for a little while, she had found love.
The horse shifted, and she released the bough. Thick needles of pine swung back and severed her view. A fitting reminder that her time here was past.
Now, to reach a port.
With ease she swung up on the mare. The fragrant bed of needles and earth absorbed the clomp of hooves as she wove through the forest. When she reached a clearing, she urged her mount into a canter without looking back.
“Patrik.”
At Seathan’s gruff voice, Patrik forced his lids open. Orange-red rays of the fading sunset tumbled into his chamber, the scent of the summer evening and roasting venison a wonderful mix. A memory gnawed at his mind, something important he must remember. He searched, but it fell away.
“Patrik,” Seathan repeated.
“I am awake,” Patrik grumbled as he waded through his mind’s haze, clawing for the thought. He glanced over at the table, froze.
The writ was gone.
Memories poured through him of trying to go after Cristina, then blackness. He’d passed out. Patrik glanced over, found his brothers and Griffin in ominous silence at his side. No words were necessary; the upset on the men’s faces matched his own.
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